Pahrump had seen better days. At least, Rachel hoped it had. Run-down and only a step away from seedy, the town still supported what a quick online search claimed to be a population of about ten thousand. Far lower than its peak decades before, but in many ways, not all that much worse than some of the other towns in Arizona.
The Great Struggle had been tough for everyone. Everywhere. And not just in the United States. So, the timeworn appearance of Pahrump was not entirely surprising.
After almost two hours of sleep, Henry Yamada’s tired eyes were focused on the map on his phone, navigating as they made their way through town. Pioche Street was on the south side past an abandoned golf course, whose large open stretches of yellow grass looked out over the distant Nopah mountain range just beyond the California border.
A few cars passed as they made their way through multiple blocks of neighboring streets. The cars were old and dusty but functioning.
They found the address and pulled over out front of the small, well-kept prefab with a long concrete driveway, skirted by a waist-high chain-link fence, with a small rock garden for a front yard. Nothing fancy, but it was clear that whoever lived there took care of it.
They climbed out, squinting beneath the glaring late-morning sun. The temperature indicator on Yamada’s dash was broken, but it had to be somewhere in the mid-nineties. Together, they headed for the chain-link gate, but no sooner had they reached it than a large German shepherd erupted from behind the house, charging at full speed and barking ferociously.
The dog came to a sliding stop less than ten feet from the fence, causing his chain to go taut, clearly aware of where his range ended. But his barking remained relentless, powerful, and frightening. Rachel was pretty sure he could have chewed through the restraint had the thought occurred to him.
“Geez!” said Yamada, putting a hand on his chest. “Thank God for the chain.”
Shaken, they remained standing by the front of the car, keeping some distance between themselves and the dog on the other side of the fence.
“What do we do?”
Rachel shrugged and placed one hand above her brow, trying to see inside the house’s front window. “I can’t tell if anyone’s home.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not going up to ring the doorbell. Then again, something tells me they don’t need the doorbell to know we’re here.”
“Probably not.” Rachel continued watching the front window, looking for any movement.
“What do you want?”
Rachel and Henry whirled at the sudden voice behind them. On the opposite side of the street, a woman stood behind her own fence and watched them. Her entire length of fence was lined by tall weeds, and in the yard was a decrepit, rusted swing set, which looked like it was struggling to remain standing. Not far from that were remnants of an old garden bed.
The woman—probably in her seventies—wore baggy, wrinkled clothes. Her face looked like leather from years in the hot, dry climate.
Rachel cleared her throat and cautiously approached across the hot pavement. “Hello.”
“What do you want?” the woman repeated.
“We’re, uh, looking for someone. Someone who used to live here.”
“Like who?”
“Waterman,” said Yamada, following behind Rachel.
“Waterman?”
“Yes. Devin Waterman.”
“Why?”
They glanced at each other. “Why?”
“Why are you looking for him?” The woman leaned onto her fence, squinting at both of them as they drew near.
“Uh, we’re here about a mutual friend.”
“What friend?”
Now Rachel furrowed her brow and motioned to the house behind her. “Does Devin Waterman still live here?”
The old woman continued scrutinizing as though looking for something. Until she finally nodded. “Yeah, he lives there. Been in this hellhole for thirty years. Hell, he was here before me.”
“Do you know if he’s home?” asked Rachel.
The woman shook her head. “Not during the day. Which is why he has Fluffy over there.”
They both looked at the dog and then back to the woman. “His dog’s name is Fluffy?”
She laughed at them, then raised a fist up to her mouth and ended with a short cough. “I’m just yanking your chain. Its name ain’t Fluffy. It’s Sparkles.”
There was another brief look of surprise, quickly replaced by doubt.
“All right, I’m just joshing. His name is Max. And it’s a good thing you didn’t go any closer. That damn dog is mean. Like the thing’s on steroids or somethin’.”
“Do you know where we can find Mr. Waterman?”
“He’s always at the same place.”
“And where would that be?”
“At the range.”
Rachel looked at Yamada. “The range?”
“There’s where you find most range masters, ain’t it? On the range.”
“Range master? Of what?”
The woman grimaced. “You don’t know nothin’ about him, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Then why you looking for him?”
“We’re trying to help someone. An old friend of Mr. Waterman’s.”
She laughed with a small cackle. “I didn’t know good old Devin had any friends.” Watching the two youngsters, she finally waved her hand. “He’s a range master up the road. At Prairie Fire. Where they do all the training. That’s where he always is when he’s not outside tending to his rocks.”
Rachel feigned a smile and looked in the direction the woman had pointed. “Thank you. Where is it exactly?”
“Back the way you came. About fifteen minutes. When you see the sign, turn right. You can’t miss it. It’s the only thing out there.”
“Thank you,” she said again. Followed by Yamada. Halfway to the car, Rachel abruptly turned back around. “Uh, what does—How old is he?”
The old woman gave a haughty cackle. “Older than you!”